Fear, if not a person.

There weren’t many things, if there were any at all, that Kafka could even perceive as daunting. In her entire lifetime, the idea of facing death couldn’t bring her to tremble on her knees. But fear for her — manifested in a person, perhaps in the form of a loving partner who would wait in her home, surrounded by the possible dangers of what her background can bring.

“Thinking of something?”

Her cup of coffee tilts slightly as she takes a tiny sip before placing it down her desk, gaze turning to look at you. “It’s nothing important,” Her hand reaches for yours gently, squeezing it. “Maybe I was just thinking of you — because who I work for and what I do isn’t exactly safe, especially you’re heavily involved with me.”